


i brought the thunder (when the land was godless and free)

by skatingsplits



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Communication Issues, Cunnilingus, F/F, Praise Kink, but i physically could not, for one solitary minute i considered writing Zelda being dominant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22468528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Without needing to so much as speak a word, Marie pulls the soft blanket at their knees up to cover Zelda’s cooling body and as she does, her sharp, unpainted nail scrapes right along the outside of Zelda’s thigh. Instantly, Marie coos in sympathy but Zelda is so overcome with a sudden twist of desire that she barely hears it and she knows that the goddess has granted her an opportunity she cannot waste.
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mambo Marie
Comments: 51
Kudos: 218





	i brought the thunder (when the land was godless and free)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from Hozier's "Foreigner's God", because I truly am that basic.  
> 2\. I haven't read any other Zelda/Marie fic yet because I wanted to get this done before seeing other people's interpretations but hopefully this is enjoyable!

Although she feels a little pang of guilt for even thinking it, Zelda has to admit that there is a slight downside to having vanquished a seemingly endless parade of mortals and monsters heavenbent on the destruction of everything you hold dear; everything that comes afterwards seems just a little... flat.   
For weeks, she tenses every muscle in her body whenever a door slams a little too loudly or loud voices from the town float in through the mortuary’s open windows. Zelda isn’t the only one, either. When the brainless mortal who delivers the mail knocks on the front door hard enough to wake the dead, Ambrose leaps three feet in the air and smashes two of Hilda’s best Flora Danica soup plates. It’s telling in itself that instead of brushing it off and mending them, Hilda snaps at Ambrose and storms off to bed, leaving a borscht-y mess on her nice, clean kitchen floor. It’s as though the house is still under a spell, albeit one with no consequences beyond broken dishes and sleepless nights.

But then three months have gone by and they’re no longer bracing themselves with fatal curses every time they hear the milkman clinking his bottles in the morning. You could almost be fooled into thinking that things were, goddess forbid, normal. Normal and perhaps just a tiny bit boring. It isn’t that Zelda is cracked enough to miss the ever-present threat of fatal danger but one would think there would be something in between spending every moment fearing for one’s life and a daily routine that starts and ends with going to bed in the same room as your little sister and nothing but unappreciative schoolchildren to fill the gaps. Somehow, in the general panic, she’s settled into a pattern that she’d been too preoccupied to nip in its bud and although it’s normally her favourite pastime, Zelda can’t even really bring herself to complain. Because everything is... fine. It really is. It’s merely that when they defeated a multitude of forces of evil, in the aftermath Zelda had been hoping for a little more than fine. And if she’s scrupulously honest with herself (which has admittedly never been her speciality), there is one particular area in which the general fine-ness of things is becoming rather a problem.

All things considered, Marie LaFleur is a delight. She’s one of the only people alive who can prompt a laugh from Zelda that comes from a place of pure mirth, without even a tinge of her habitual derision. In sharp contrast with Zelda herself, she has the ability to smooth over troubled waters as easily as breathing, rather than heading straight for the deep end and making more waves. And she’s unfailingly kind, a skill which Zelda has never quite managed (or, really, tried) to master. Along with everything else, the two of them have settled into a comfortable to and fro and although she’d never do anything as mortifying as tell Marie so, Zelda could not have found better help in restructuring the coven if she’d trawled to all four corners of the world and back again. She’s been unbelievably lucky, really. That’s why it seems so ridiculous to make a fuss about the _other_ aspect of their relationship. Goddess knows, in a long and varied history of hedonistic pursuits, Zelda has had far, far worse things to gripe about. Marie is attentive, affectionate, and has long, clever fingers that Zelda often finds herself idly daydreaming about when she ought to be marking badly-written essays about pick-up potions. On paper, she’s perfect. But in practice, perfection isn’t exactly what Zelda is looking for. Perfection is soft lines and clean edges, and Zelda has always been drawn to jagged corners and rough surfaces. Marie is sweet kisses and intertwined fingers, and no matter how hard she tries, Zelda will always be sharp teeth and clawing nails.

The trouble is, after three months of more than adequate sex, it would be rather indelicate to roll over one evening and say “yes dear, that was lovely, but when you make me come, could you manage to wrap your hand around my throat and tell me how proud I’ve made you?”. Knowing Marie, the other woman would likely take it in her stride as easily as she does everything else but surely the realisation that, every time they’ve fucked, a tiny part of Zelda has been somewhere else would cast the last few weeks in a fairly sour light. It would be so much easier if she didn’t care tuppence for Marie but, as loathe as she as to admit it, Zelda has grown fonder of her new friend than she actually thought she was capable of feeling for anyone who isn’t a Spellman. And now, because of her own innate ridiculousness, she can either suffer through a foreseeable future of diluted sexual pleasure, or she can risk ruining one of the best things to happen to her and the coven in a very long time. Zelda knows that for someone who had not frequently had their sense of morality compared to Elizabeth Bathory by their little sister, it would be a very simple choice to make. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t make it even the tiniest bit easier.

Except, thank the goddess, it turns out that Marie herself is a master (or perhaps one ought to say a mistress) of making things easier for stubborn witches who never use one clear word when twenty complicated ones will do. The two of them are in Marie’s bed, as they often are; the room used to be her mother’s dressing room but now it’s unrecognisable. Marie has scattered her personality all over it, from the pretty red and orange necklaces slung over the vanity to the intensely bright and delightfully detailed paintings of beautiful women in flagrante on the walls. Zelda can imagine exactly how her mother would have reacted to such colourful vitality disguising the stiff New England opulence beneath it- the anger of the old gods would have nothing on Frances Spellman when faced with the destruction of her William Morris wallpaper. It’s a cosy room now, and even though Zelda usually slips away upstairs to her own room before she lets herself drift off, lying here in a post-coital embrace with Marie is decidedly pleasant. The sex that preceded it had been pleasant too and perhaps it’s the post-orgasm clarity in her head but somehow Zelda knows that if she doesn’t say something now, nobody is ever again going to spank her so hard she can’t drive the hearse for a week.

The window is open and the night breeze is beginning to give Zelda gooseflesh (no matter how warm the day has been, they are still in Greendale). Without needing to so much as speak a word, Marie pulls the soft blanket at their knees up to cover Zelda’s cooling body and as she does, her sharp, unpainted nail scrapes right along the outside of Zelda’s thigh. Instantly, Marie coos in sympathy but Zelda is so overcome with a sudden twist of desire that she barely hears it and she knows that the goddess has granted her an opportunity she cannot waste.

“Desolée! Does it hurt, chérie?” Marie makes to soothe the skin with her soft fingers but Zelda grabs her wrist before she can.

“Yes,” Zelda says slowly, turning onto her side to gaze at Marie with heavy eyes. She takes Marie’s hand and manipulates it so that once again, sharp nails scratch over the unmarked skin of Zelda’s thigh. “Yes, it hurts.”

They stare at each other for a long moment and Zelda would swear that she can physically feel the way Marie’s thoughts flicker in the jumping pulse of her wrist. The other woman’s face is unreadable, her usual smile neither widened with pleasure or faded in disgust. Until, so quickly that Zelda doesn’t have time to do anything other than succumb, she shifts to pin Zelda beneath her with a smile so sensual that it’s very difficult for Zelda to stop herself letting out a little whimper.

“Wicked girl,” she purrs, brushing a loose strand of hair back from Zelda’s forehead, and her hand is so warm in contrast with the cool night air that Zelda does let out a tiny noise now.

“Oh, you’re quite mistaken, Madame LaFleur.” The breathless edge to her voice might slightly spoil the effect of louche sophistication that she was aiming for but Zelda is unable to contain it as she presses her mouth to the soft warmth of Marie’s neck. “I happen to have been very...” She kisses the smooth skin, “very...” and darts her tongue out to taste sweet salt and orange blossom, “ _good_...” and scrapes her teeth over the ridge of Marie's collarbone. Long fingers grasp at her hair and pull her back up until the two of them are kissing, all teeth and tongue and tension, and there’s a hot, prickly wave of desire crashing through Zelda’s body that she hasn’t felt the likes of in weeks. It’s so intensely delicious that when they break apart, she can do nothing but gaze up at Marie’s darkened eyes with quiet desperation; desperation that increases tenfold when Marie slowly but surely grabs Zelda’s wrists and pins them above her head.

“So this is what you need...” Marie’s voice is a velvety rumble and Zelda is hyperconscious of the way Marie’s chest is rising and falling against her own. Evidently Zelda is not the only one who’s finding it difficult to catch her breath. “You need me to hold you down and make this pretty body flush and writhe for me while I tell you what a good girl you've been, mon trésor?”

Another tiny moan falls from Zelda’s kiss-plumped lips and all she can do is nod. Desire is overwhelming her so strongly that it’s a struggle to even keep her eyes open and the heavy softness of Marie above her is too perfect to bear.

“But Zelda, ma chérie, I am not sure that you have been a good girl.” Immediately, Zelda’s body stiffens with panic but Marie is still staring down at her with a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “Good girls do not lie about what they want, hmm? Good girls do not pretend that all is well when they aren’t happy.”

“I’m not... I wasn’t unhappy,” Zelda stutters out and it isn’t exactly a lie but the elegant arching of Marie’s eyebrows puts a blush on her cheeks regardless.

“We have both lived long enough to know that there is a difference between being happy and not being unhappy, Zelda.” Marie softens the impact of her words with a teasing brush of her lips to Zelda’s jaw but the familiar sensation of guilt still manages to twist its well-practiced knife into her stomach and she responds the only way she knows how.

“I don’t recall asking you to psychoanalyse me,” Zelda snaps, muscles tensing, and the guilt-knife only digs in harder, but Marie seems entirely unfazed.

“You are not as inscrutable as you think you are, chérie,” she says with as much of a shrug as she can muster while she’s pinning Zelda’s wrists to the mattress. Zelda purses her lips and wriggles, just a little. It’s not that she actually wants to break free, not now that she’s inches away from getting the thing her entire body is screaming for, but it’s never quite as much fun if she gives in without a fight. Marie’s face doesn’t even flicker as she tightens her grip on Zelda’s wrists and heaven, the woman’s hands are strong. “So, Mistress Spellman. Are you going to run away aching and unsatisfied? Or are you going to be my good girl and do exactly as I tell you?”

“I’ll be good,” Zelda rasps, and she would be embarrassed by the blatancy of the lust in her voice if her entire being weren’t far too consumed with that lust to bother with anything else.

“Of course you will,” Marie says smugly and Zelda is too entranced to even roll her eyes. “So, let me tell you what is going to happen now. You are going to behave yourself and stay very still, and I am going to eat your pretty little cunt until you scream, comprenez-vous?”

Heat flickering through every inch of her, Zelda can only make a wordless noise of agreement, her eyes fluttering shut. When Marie releases her wrists and begins to lay a trail of divine kisses down her sternum, Zelda tries her very best to do as she’s told. It’s just that when Marie reaches her stomach and licks a long, teasing stripe over her navel, Zelda is incapable of stopping herself from squirming with delight.

“I said don’t move,” Marie orders and when the flat of her palm meets the soft flesh of Zelda’s thigh, the satisfying noise it makes is almost better than the stinging impact. Goddess, Zelda has missed that sound. So much so that it’s incredibly tempting to move again, to spur Marie on and hopefully get herself a matching red mark on the other thigh. Although the thought of hearing Marie's sensual purr telling her how good she's been is just as tempting and Zelda is caught between two utterly wonderful alternatives until Marie’s mouth descends on her cunt and every single thought she's ever had floats right out of her head.

It’s not as though this is the first time Marie's mouth has had Zelda moaning and cursing loudly enough to wake the bodies in the mortuary. No, Marie has been routinely turning her into a quivering wreck for the last three months but tonight, Zelda is practically on another astral plane altogether. Her hands are still above her head where Marie left them, not twining into Marie’s soft hair and pulling her exactly where Zelda wants her. Her ruined voice is chanting desperate, unintelligible pleas, not strident commands. And although it's a superhuman effort, she doesn't writhe and squirm and contort her body beneath Marie's sinfully perfect mouth. She's a good girl, she knows she is, and even though her muscles are straining, she's barely even twitching and Marie is going to be so _proud_ of her- and at that thought, she's coming with a cry like a woman possessed and it’s impossible not to move now but it's so perfect and Marie’s tongue must be a gift from the goddess and everything is so, _so_ much more than fine.

When Zelda is fully lucid again, Marie's head is no longer between her thighs but gently resting against her own, with that perfect mouth soft against Zelda’s cheek.

“What a good, clever girl I have,” she murmurs and Zelda is still fuck-drunk enough to not bother restraining her own happy sigh. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, ma belle? See how nice things can be when you let yourself ask for what you want?”

The corners of her mouth twitching, Zelda fondly rolls her eyes and rolls over. Her hand reaches its way up Marie’s smooth thigh but the other woman grabs it before it can reach its destination.

“Another time,” Marie says idly, waving her other hand in the air as if it’s inconsequential. It isn’t inconsequential, she’s just given Zelda the best orgasm she’s had in six months and now she won't let her return the favour?

“But I can-”

“I know you can,” Marie replies with a softness that sets something in Zelda’s chest fluttering. “But not everything has to be a transaction, hmm? You do not owe me anything.” Zelda shifts, suddenly uncomfortable in body and spirit. The way this woman says things that make Zelda’s head spin as calmly as if she's discussing what to have for breakfast is going to take some serious getting used to. “You need to relax, ma chérie.”

Well, even Zelda knows that that’s about as likely as Vinegar Tom waking up tomorrow morning and demanding to be taken for a walk. But she does think, as she lets the cool summer breeze from Marie’s open window gently lull her to sleep, that there might be something to be said for voicing one’s needs once in a while. Particularly if it has such _delightful_ consequences. 


End file.
